


i guess that's why they call it the blues

by orphan_account



Series: the end of a decade, the start of an age [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aurors, Bullying, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, First War with Voldemort, Gay Character, Hogwarts, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slytherin Fabian Prewett, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:15:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26685754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Fabian Prewett is lost. Maybe he always has been.
Relationships: Fabian Prewett & Gideon Prewett, Fabian Prewett & Molly Weasley, Fabian Prewett/Benjy Fenwick
Series: the end of a decade, the start of an age [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941721
Kudos: 1





	i guess that's why they call it the blues

**Author's Note:**

> TW// bullying, drinking, smoking, swearing, major character death
> 
> Fabian is a favourite of mine and I feel very much alone in that. Hopefully, he'll have a few more stans after this.  
> To clarify, the ages are messed up in this. Gideon is supposed to be two years older than Fabian, and Molly like five years older than him.
> 
> Also, I feel like I represented Slytherins badly in this, which is a crime against my own house. Many apologies for that. But I digress. 
> 
> Happy reading!

Sometimes, Fabian wondered if there was something wrong with him.

Gideon was normal. He played Quidditch: he revelled in cheers from a crowd clad in burgundy; he rode his broom with controlled agility, hit Bludgers like they couldn’t kill him, landed in patches of mud and kicked them up in triumph. He did his work: he excelled at Transfiguration; he adored Potions, scoffed at Divination, read the stars like a book in Astronomy. He was popular: he could often be found with a girl in a dark corner; he laughed with boys, charmed the teachers, made friends with the ghosts.

Molly was normal. She was a creative prodigy: she knitted for hours; she sewed patterns that sparkled and danced, sketched with visionary abandon, painted the world in all its stark glory. She fell in love: she held hands with Arthur; she kissed him without inhibition, danced with him in the moonlight, dreamt of their future. She was kind beyond kind: she fussed like a mother hen; she wiped away tears, gave comforting hugs, flipped off those who bullied first years.

Fabian was not.

He stood in the Great Hall, just on the cusp of 12, his elder brother and sister restless with anticipation at the Gryffindor table. Being called near the end, he sat on the wobbly three-legged stool and tried desperately not to fall off. The Hat said his surname once, mused over his family’s hitherto unbroken Gryffindor bias, and declared him a Slytherin.

Fabian tried not to cry, fall over or look at his siblings. But he could see Gideon from the corner of his eye, mouth open in disbelief, and Molly, face crumpled. That was it, their thoughts seemed to shout. Our little brother is to be a Death Eater. That was the Slytherin reputation, after all. Who was he to fight it?

Fabian tried not to cry.

He was hexed three times during his first week.

The first time had been an Instant-Scalping Hex, graciously given to him by a sixth year Slytherin, who couldn’t contain his grin as he watched Fabian burst into tears. It was a trademark for the Prewetts, the fiery-red hair. Once an attribute he had been proud of, the other Slytherins said it marked Fabian as different, as a would-be Gryffindor who was bringing shame upon their house. Madam Pomfrey grew his hair back in no time, but Fabian still stood at the mirror in his dorm’s bathroom that night, scissors in one hand, tears falling into a pile of ginger hair that lay in the sink.

The second time had been the Stickfast hex. He was on his way to class, his fear of the cantankerous old Herbology professor making him eager to get there quickly. But another fellow Slytherin, a second year this time, cast the hex under his breath. He fell about laughing with his friends as they watched Fabian struggle to move. He stayed there until lunchtime, desperate and pleading, when Professor Slughorn found him. The man freed him, offered him a hesitant pat on the shoulder and told him to get to lunch. Fabian dodged out of the common room before Slughorn saw his face fall.

The last time was the worst. A Slytherin girl ran up to him, tapped his nose with her wand and ran away before he could even see her face. But he didn’t dwell on it, for a curious numbing sensation took over his mouth. His hand flew up. To his horror, he felt his front teeth growing at a rapid pace. In no time, they had reached his chin. Fabian gave a muffled groan and turned away from the crowd of first years before anyone could see. His efforts were in vain. A boy in his house, the same year as him, placed a hand gently on Fabian’s arm, who vaguely recognised him from Potions class. He pushed him gently out of the crowd and shielded Fabian’s front the best he could with his slight frame.

“Come on,” He whispered, “Let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey.”

They hurried to the hospital ward in silence and the boy opened the doors, waving Fabian in but not following.

“Wait!” Fabian called to the boy’s retreating back, as clearly as he could, “You didn’t tell me your name?”

“Benjy. Benjy Fenwick.” He ambled forward and thrust his hand out for Fabian to shake. He did so gladly.

“Fabian Prewett.”

“I know,” Benjy said with a pained expression, “Everyone does.”

Fabian mulled over that as Madam Pomfrey fussed around him. Most Slytherins seemed to hate him, at first because of his entire family’s being in Gryffindor and then because they’d seen him cry. The purebloods, those who were bred to hold their heads high and crush emotion to a pulp no matter what, detested him for it. Those that hadn’t were too afraid to stand up for him. If Fabian didn’t protect himself, then clearly no one else would. So he vowed then, as his teeth shrank back to normal size, to never show them his weaknesses again, to live up to the Slytherin name, and to say a big ‘fuck you’ to anyone who tried to push him around again.

Benjy Fenwick was a good kid. All coffee brown curls and wide, amber eyes that looked bright against dark skin. A Slytherin to his very core, but goodness followed it all the way down. The boy fascinated Fabian, more than he cared to admit. He had had more than a hand in corrupting Benjy. The impressionable kid had absorbed most of Fabian’s bad habits (bar the smoking; Benjy hated that). But Fabian liked to think he simply made a stoic fourteen-year-old fun.

They sat in the Clock Tower, a bottle of expensive vodka stolen from his parent’s cabinet and a small jar that held purple flames Fabian had conjured up himself between them. Benjy leant forwards, grabbed the bottle and took a deep swig like Fabian did. He winced as the foul-tasting liquid hit the back of his throat, some of it coming back up to form droplets on this mouth.

Fabian watched him, noting how the moonlight danced prettily in the beads of vodka. Benjy wiped them away with the back of his hand, grimacing. Fabian chuckled to himself, and took another drag from his cigarette, “You’re so fucking cute.”

“Cute?” Benjy wrinkled his nose, more at the bottle he was still gripping than at Fabian’s words.

“Absolutely adorable, Fenwick.”

Benji averted his eyes and watched the old clock tick for a moment, before meeting Fabian’s eyes again, “I don’t- are you-”

“Queer? Hmm… maybe.” Fabian smiled indulgently.

“Maybe? Haven’t you thought about it?”

He had. He had tossed and turned at night, thinking about feelings he didn’t want to have. It wasn’t normal. Or at least, everyone said so. But then again, Fabian knew he hadn’t been normal in years, if ever. Maybe, just maybe, he _was_ gay. Maybe when he relieved his frustrations in bed late at night, trying desperately not to think of other men, that was an obvious sign. He had been stupid not to see it, really.

“Yeah, I’ve thought about it. I guess I am.”

“Oh. Well, that’s cool… I don’t want-”

Fabian threw him a derisive look, “Relax, Fenwick, I’m not gonna jump your bones.”

“I wasn’t going to- Huh… am I not your type or something?” Benjy glanced at him. Something more than the firelight glowed in his eyes. The look was intense, and a strong, heady feeling washed over Fabian from the sheer force of it. He sucked in a lungful of the cool night air to drown it out.

“This coming from the guy who got all tetchy over me being queer,” He tried to sound casual, poking the jar of flames with his wand so he could look at anything but Benjy.

“I did _not_. Fay, I don’t mind. You’re my best friend.”

Fabian plucked the bottle from his hands and took a deeper gulp than Benjy had. He licked the vodka from his lips, not taking his eyes off his friend for a moment.

“I’m touched.”

Benjy considered him for a moment, “I mean, you are, aren’t you? My best friend, I mean?”

“Of course,” Fabian took a drag from his cigarette, ignoring the pit in his stomach from Benjy’s words, “Best friends.”

The summer holidays after his fourth year were the hardest yet.

It was no fault of his family. His parents were what you’d expect: kind, attentive, rightfully worried about their youngest son. He shook off their concerns, feigned laughter, left the house and didn’t return until the sun had slipped beyond the horizon.

It was no fault of his brother. Gideon tried far harder than Fabian felt he deserved. He didn’t want a rift between them, neither of them did, but whenever Fabian tried to explain how he felt, the words died in his throat. He turned away instead.

And it was no fault of his sister. Molly was grown up; she’d moved out and was expecting her third child. She had the life she wanted. It was simple, but some people were content with simple. Fabian knew he could never be. His marriage with complicated was a hard one, but divorce was not an option. Molly knew it; she saw the storm in her little brother’s eyes and tried to smother it with hugs. Fabian always fought his way out of her arms.

It got too much very quickly. Fabian left the house earlier and earlier and got back later and later until he was barely in it at all. He wandered the moors surrounding the Prewett cottage, further each day, trying to exhaust himself. He dashed rocks into lakes, kicked at fallen trees, screamed at the rain-heavy clouds as he stood on top of tall hills. He knew it was dramatic, overly so, but Fabian didn’t care. Anything to rid himself of the feelings that could ruin everything.

Fabian returned home one night, with rain-battered cheeks and tired eyes, so sure it had worked. He dodged Gideon’s questions, ducked away from his mother’s attempt to dry his hair. Tumbling into bed, Fabian fell asleep almost immediately.

But still he dreamed of brown curls against brown skin, of a Slytherin heart of gold.

Benjy made the Quidditch team the next year. He was a Seeker, and good at it too. Fabian tried hard not to look at him during matches, but that was evidently just as suspicious as staring: Benjy had noticed.

One day, as they sat in the common room, catching up on homework late into the night, he nudged Fabian gently with his elbow.

Fabian rubbed his eyes and mumbled, “What?”

“I was just wondering,” He licked his lips nervously; Fabian tried not to look. Benjy sighed and continued, “You don’t seem to be impressed whenever I play Quidditch.”

“Impressed?” Fabian grinned, “You’re trying to impress me now?”

Benjy turned back to his Potions homework, “I worded that wrong. Don’t get excited. You just… don’t watch me.”

“You’ve been looking?”

“Well, I just, you know, wanted my best friend’s support.”

Fabian nudged Benjy’s shoulder with his own, “And you have it, Fenwick, you prat. You’re great on the field.”

“So why don’t you watch me?” Benjy looked Fabian deep in the eyes before continuing, “Distracted by Black?”

“Black?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen the way you look at him. You like him, don’t you?”

Fabian scoffed, “God, no. Regulus is an arse, though his _is_ rather nice," Fabian narrowed his eyes at Benjy, "Why d’you ask anyway? Jealous, are we?”

“Ah, well, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Fabian didn’t admit that he would.

He made a conscious effort to actually watch Benjy play, checking himself in case he stared too long. But he couldn’t help it sometimes. Fabian was enchanted by how the boy looked in those robes, how he rode with an elegant grace. The concentration on Benjy’s face was just so damn _sexy_. Fabian wasn’t sure how he’d ever held himself back from jumping his bones before.

After the match, Fabian waited for Benjy outside the Slytherin changing rooms. He wasn’t enthused about the sweaty-teenager, after-match smell, but he’d deal with it. Lighting a cigarette, he prayed that Benjy wouldn’t take too long. It was, after all, a Hogsmeade weekend, and the Three Broomsticks was calling Fabian’s name.

He emerged a few minutes later, still wearing his Quidditch robes, which were conspicuously clean of mud. He paused when he spotted Fabian, looking at him as if he wasn’t looking right back.

“Good match, Fenwick,” Fabian called, smirking at the look on his friend’s face, “Didn’t look at Black once, you’ll be happy to know.” Benjy said nothing for a moment, instead moving closer to Fabian.

“You waited? I thought you’d be at Hogsmeade by now.” He said breathlessly, as if Fabian had just done him a huge favour.

He chuckled, tossing aside his cigarette butt, “Of course, I didn’t want-”

But he never got to finish his sentence. Benjy leant forward and pressed his lips insistently against Fabian’s. He kissed back with as much fervour. One hand found the back of Benjy’s neck, the other lost itself in the front of his Quidditch robes.

Warmth blossomed in Fabian’s chest as Benjy’s hand found the small of his back and moved him closer still.

Neither of them knew how long they stood there, making out behind the changing rooms, tongues tentatively exploring mouths, hands caressing faces, hearts fluttering with longing. There was a general sense of _finally_ in the air.

But, like all good things, it wasn’t to last. Neither of them really wanted to pull away until Benjy did. Apologies tripped off his tongue as if they burned him to speak.

Fabian stared at him with dazed eyes for a moment, before forcing a chuckle. They both brushed it off, laughed about it. But the laughs were harsh and cold, the jokes bitter and hollow.

Both of them tried to move on. Neither would forget.

The rest of the year went by without another incident. But things had changed between Fabian and Benjy, as if they no longer fitted comfortably in the friendship mould. Both parties were too afraid to make another move; it was the wrong time to fall in love. The world outside of Hogwarts was a tempest of unrest, and the time was marching ever closer where they would be caught in the thick of it. A relationship would be disastrous. Fabian could not lose Benjy to the war if they took things further; it would be bad enough losing him as a friend.

Their last year of Hogwarts hit them almost without warning. Fabian and Benjy spent it tiptoeing around each other, using the excuse of exams and worries of the future to explain away the awkwardness that sat between them. But still it spat and hissed like a tangible, terrible thing.

It wouldn’t be long before one of them snapped.

Fabian felt it could easily be him. He still dreamt of the Slytherin seeker, both in the day, as a respite from revision, and at night, dozing off in the Astronomy tower, the moon and stars lighting up his fantasies in glorious technicolour.

Every day, the war raged on more terribly than the last. More people went missing, wizard and muggle alike. Most turned up dead, the ghost of that last green flash clouding their unseeing eyes. Some were missing forever, but their families dared not hope.

Fabian was eighteen, and in the thick of it. He joined the Order, following in Gideon’s footsteps, and Benjy gladly followed. Fabian forced himself to keep quiet about that, trying hard not to scream at his best friend to run away and save himself. The nightmares he had, in the inky darkness of the Slytherin dorms, about Gideon, Molly, _Benjy_ dying, were too close to becoming true for comfort.

He shared a flat with Benjy. Fabian knew it was a bad idea, but when Benjy had suggested it, he didn’t have it in him to say no. It was a nice enough place, tucked away in the centre of London. Balconies, three stories, the works. But it could have been anywhere, any old house, and neither of them could have been happier than they were with each other.

They sat up on the roof one night- Benjy’s idea. He’d seen it on some American rom-com and wanted to try; Fabian was drawn-in by the danger of it. If he sat up, he could see the front doors of the houses opposite. It was thrilling.

The sky was clear but the stars invisible for all the city lights. A chill hung in the air, not unpleasant, but it warned of frost and times ahead.

Fabian was puffing on a cigarette, watching entranced as the curls of smoke danced under the streetlamp light. Unbeknownst to him, Benjy was studying his face, his heart full to bursting with love as he watched Fabian grin like a child at a party. He had had enough of pretending.

“Fay?”

Fabian turned to his friend and the smile only got wider, “What’s up?”

“We need to talk,” Benjy shuffled onto his elbows, affording him a better view of Fabian.

“Sounds ominous.”

“Well, it might be, but… _fuck_ , I’m so tired of this.”

Fabian’s smile dropped, and he looked serious for once, “Tired of what?”

“All this tiptoeing around and… pretending like every second you’re not… mine isn’t one I’m wasting. Fabian, I’m frankly tired of pretending I’m not completely in love with you.”

Fabian heard every word Benjy said, but his brain was taking a while to comprehend them. He couldn’t be hearing that right, surely? Things like that didn’t happen to Fabian Prewett.

He didn’t get what he wanted. Even if he’d been waiting for it for four years.

“You… mean that?”

“‘Course I do, you prat. What I said that day we kissed; I didn’t mean any of it. I was just so-”

“Scared?” Benjy nodded, his throat too dry for words, “I’m scared too, Fenwick. Scared that I love you too much, scared that it’s still not enough, scared that I’ll lose you to this fucking war. Mate, I’m terrified.”

Fabian let out a shuddering breath and continued, “But I’m completely in love with you too. Have been for years.”

Benjy chuckled, “We’ve been idiots, haven’t we?”

“I reckon so.”

“What do we do now?” Benjy whispered into the half-darkness.

Fabian shifted to his knees, so he was eye-level with him. He studied the man for a moment, scarcely able he was this close to being his. Fabian moved forward gently, scared to ruin the moment, and pressed his lips against Benjy’s. The press of Benjy’s lips against his, the scent and taste of him that cloaked every one of his senses… it was the best kind of intoxicating.

“We make up for lost time.”

Softly, slowly, they took each other in, unafraid to move too fast or too slow. Both were glad they were finally setting any pace at all.

That night, high over the winding streets of Notting Hill, the invigorating breeze ruffling fire-red and coffee-brown hair alike, Fabian Prewett was born again.

But nothing ever lasts forever.

Fabian could spend forever in Benjy’s arms, feeling like he belonged for the first time. But forever was short, and life soon came knocking. Respite, in the form of brown curls and a lasting penchant for wearing green, was temporary. The war would not be so easily ignored.

And the Order work that came with it was dangerous. It was only a matter of who was going to go first.

Fabian had prepared himself for this. Tried to, anyway. It happened on a week-long mission with Gideon. It had been going swimmingly, brother spending time with brother while they still had the chance. Fabian should have known it would not last; Death Eaters didn’t do ‘swimmingly’.

They had passed the night in good company, with drinking games (thank god for the Prewett alcohol tolerance) and junk food in abundance. Gideon chatted up several women; Fabian batted away several men. Throughout the night, he thumbed the picture he held in his breast pocket, over his heart. Benjy had been reluctant to let him take it, arguing that he wasn’t photogenic, but Fabian argued right back and got what he wanted. He was good at that.

He and Gideon strolled out of the pub just before midnight with as much as they would have had entirely sober. Gideon was decidedly more sentimental when tipsy. He grabbed Fabian by the neck and held him close.

“Proud o’you,” He mumbled into his brother’s fiery locks, “Best brother going, I reckon.”

“Sod off, Gid,” Fabian struggled laughingly out of his brother’s grasp, “Anyway, _I_ reckon you’d get all the awards for that. I’ve not been a great one.”

“Bollocks.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth, Gideon Prewett?”

Gideon pushed Fabian, who retaliated with an elbow jab to the ribs. They walked on further, arms tossed over each other’s shoulders, laughing and joking all the way.

They almost made it back to Gideon’s apartment. Almost.

But four whip-like cracks stopped them dead in their tracks. Fabian turned first, drawing his wand. From the shadows the streetlight didn’t reach emerged four men. Each wore an intricate silver mask. Each removed them at the same time, perfectly in sync.

Gideon threw the first curse.

And all hell broke loose.

Flashes of green and red lit up the silent Muggle street. The air was alive with the sound of cracks, as the men Apparated and Disapparated at will. It wasn’t long before Fabian was exhausted.

It wasn’t long before he made a fatal mistake.

He had turned slightly to his left, to where Gideon stood. He shouted to his brother, told him to leave, to get help. But Fabian didn’t notice the Death Eater creeping up on his other side, not until it was too late.

He turned at the sound of footsteps. Made eye contact with the man. Raised his wand. Watched a mouth speak an Unforgivable phrase. And was dead before he hit the pavement.

Benjy also had a picture: Fabian on Christmas Eve, looking directly at the camera, laughing as the tree lights lit up his face with a green glow. He kept it with him always, as Fabian did, clutching it at times of need. As he did on the night of February 21st, as three Aurors filed into the living room, armed with the worse news possible.

The picture did not move after that.

Benjy couldn’t explain why. They weren’t supposed to do that. But he felt the same way. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to fight, to plot or even think. Benjy wanted Fabian. He couldn’t have him.

He kept the photo with him always. And soon after, it lay as incomplete as he did.


End file.
